


Cromwell tank that wanted to be an Eagle

by Sorsa



Category: Assassin's Creed
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - World War II, British Military, M/M, Tanks, tankmen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-01
Updated: 2016-08-01
Packaged: 2018-07-28 16:04:06
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,735
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7647586
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Sorsa/pseuds/Sorsa
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five tankmen are shipped off to Normandy and told to scout in their brand new Cromwell tank. Malik can't stand his commander Altaïr and the rest of the drivers in his battle group are incompetent. Will they survive alive until the end of the war? And will Malik and Altaïr learn to work together?</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cromwell tank that wanted to be an Eagle

**Author's Note:**

> So I've wanted to write this AU for a while now but it was only now that I was given enough encouragement to actually write it. It's probably very hard to grasp just how much research went into making this fic but I've been reading war memoirs for years now, I love WWII tanks, and I went just the other weekend to visit a tank museum just to refresh my memories for the purpose of writing this fic. I drooled all over the Charioteer and Comet there which are both based on the same tank(Cromwell) I have mainly featured in this story. The Charioteer in fact is just a Cromwell with a better gun.
> 
> Many many thanks to Darth-Tofu who beta-read this for me!
> 
> I thank in advance to anyone who reads this!

Malik watched as people buzzed around him all wearing their uniforms and marching with enthusiasm. There was tension and excitement in the air. The new recruits had not yet seen any action and were over-eager to prove themselves. He had been training them since he returned from North-Africa and seen all kinds of antics. Quite the few of them thought themselves to be some sort of tank-aces without even ever having seen a tank in action – never mind actually operating one.

 

In a few days their imaginary constructs of themselves would be shattered when they would be shipped to France and faced with the German Panzer divisions. He didn’t know where he would be in a few days because almost as soon as he had returned to England he had been told to train recruits. He had not received any further orders in regards to D-day.

 

He wasn’t the only one without anything to do though as he watched Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad strut through the crowd with his uniform worn in a way that barely regulation. The man was apparently some upper class woman’s bastard son and had gained quite the reputation as a tank commander. They were both desert rats but they were nothing like each other.

 

Altaïr was known for rash tactics while Malik flew low under the radar. He didn’t want to draw attention to himself unlike the idiot who was apparently making his way towards him. He didn’t know the man personally and didn’t really care to know him either. They just both happened to be in the same division and that’s it.

 

Altaïr stopped in front of Malik which made Malik want to scowl at Altaïr’s unkempt attire but he refrained.

 

“I was told to come and collect you,” Altaïr said.

 

“Really?” Malik questioned before he could reign himself in. Altaïr just rubbed him in the wrong way.

 

“Yes. They have assigned us both to a same tank,” Altaïr answered.

 

Malik’s face twisted into a frown for a while in response to the news. This was something he would have rather avoided as being in the same battle group with Altaïr inevitably meant useless risks and a lot of bravado but being in the same tank was like having been told to suicide run into the enemy lines.

 

Altaïr turned around without further ado and Malik followed behind. He schooled his face back into a neutral expression because if he was going to meet up with some higher ups he didn’t want to look like an angry porcupine which was a nickname he had earned in the desert. There were a plethora of other less flattering nicknames he had been given while on the North-African campaign he would rather not think about.

 

They stopped in front of a brand new Cromwell. The tank didn’t even have any camouflage colouring on it but was just instead the standard beige. In the desert they had been driving the horrible Centaur or the Sherman which while somewhat adequate in armour and gun power, couldn’t go over anything that was higher than knee-height.

 

He had been driving Cromwells in Bovington fields however and then trained innumerable people to drive them. They were fast and nimble to drive which was every tank driver’s wet dream. In fact the whole tank was like a god-sent gift after the Centaur which just didn’t cut it in any way, shape, or form. He would gladly embark on the continental Europe in one of these machines.

 

The only problem he was facing stood next to him. Altaïr would be his tank commander. It wouldn’t matter how good of a driver he was if Altaïr would ask impossible things or drive them into a certain doom. Malik realised they weren’t going to the desert but to the hedgerow filled countryside of France where there was much less room for manoeuvres and mistakes.

 

Three wet-behind-the-ears recruits reported to them. Malik eyed the men with a critical eye. One of them he had trained for driving a while ago before deciding the task was impossible and that the man would be better suited for something else – preferably something not involving tanks.

 

“Ezio Auditore reporting for duty, sir,” the said hopeless recruit announced with too much enthusiasm and a noticeable Italian accent. Malik remembered what the other thing he had not liked about the man was, apart from being abysmally untalented at driving, and that was the stereotypical Italian mannerism.

 

“I remember you from a while ago,” he commented. Ezio’s face seemed to light up even more.

 

“Ah yes, I am not here to drive but to shoot the Nazi bastards, my friend,” Ezio responded.

 

This was going to be their gunner? Maybe he should just drive all the way to the Berlin with the visor open while waiting to be shot through it.

 

“I truly hope you are better at shooting than you are at driving,” he countered.

 

“Shaun Hastings also reporting for duty. I’ve been assigned as the loader and radio operator,” said a very British looking man with glasses. Those glasses were going to break after the first bump he would drive over.

 

“Desmond Miles reporting for duty. I’m the front gunner,” said the last recruit who bore a striking similarity to Altaïr but spoke with an unmistakable American accent. Malik looked at Altaïr who remained stone-faced through it all.

 

“Are you two related?” he finally asked.

 

“He’s my cousin,” Altaïr answered.

 

“You know that relatives are not allowed in the same battle group, let alone in the same crew?” he questioned.

 

“I didn’t decide on the crew. I don’t care,” Altaïr answered. Malik felt the whole thing was too much of a coincidence but didn’t comment on it.

 

He just rubbed his face in exasperation while the three newcomers fidgeted nervously. So somebody had just thought that sticking all the people with foreign roots into the same tank would work marvellously and that they would magically get along because they weren’t native Brits? Though what was the only Brit doing there then? He had no clue.

 

“So what are the details?” he asked.

 

Altaïr grinned in a way that had nothing to do with being happy.

 

“We’ll do reconnaissance for the main force heading towards Caen. We’ll be joined up by three other crews once we have landed,” Altaïr explained.

 

Malik cringed inwardly. They would be in front of even the front-lines it would seem and a position like that demanded extra caution if they were to survive their mission. Altaïr was not known for caution. This was going to end up in disaster.

 

While he was still musing the ramifications of the whole ordeal Altaïr just left without saying a word. He wouldn’t have even noticed Altaïr missing but Hastings asked, “Did our commander just leave without telling us when we are supposed to depart?”

 

Malik sighed and leaned on the tank even if the side-skirts weren’t terribly comfortable against his shoulder blades.

 

“He’s a bit of an eccentric,” he said to be diplomatic though he did agree with Hastings.

 

“Were you in the same crew with him in the Desert Rats?” the annoying Italian asked.

 

“Gods no. But he has a reputation that precedes him,” he said and noticed how Miles had remained oddly quiet the entire time. Altaïr’s cousin looked like he would rather be anywhere else but here which was just peculiar behaviour from a new tankman.

 

“So if you weren’t aware the dear commander who just left is Altaïr Ibn-La’Ahad and I’m the driver Malik Al-Sayf. You may call me Malik because none of you are able to pronounce my surname anyway,” he said.

 

He then decided he would also just leave to do something else as Altaïr apparently either didn’t or couldn’t part with more information regarding their mission. He would rather spent the time sleeping.

 

“What are we supposed to do?” Hastings shouted after him.

 

Malik looked over his shoulder and saw the three new crew members looking visibly uncomfortable. He then shrugged in an exaggerated manner.

 

“Go make brew or something,” he replied and the three men looked even more confused.

 

********************

 

They landed at the Sword beach right after the main force had already passed through it. The beach was a mess with bodies littered everywhere and it was hard to tell if there were people still alive because there were just so many of them. The sight was truly sickening.

 

On Malik’s left side Miles looked through his own periscope and went white as a ghost. Malik schooled his face into something akin to neutrality because he didn’t want Miles to know how much the sight affected him as well.

 

“Altaïr, where should I drive?” he asked through the intercom because he really didn’t want to accidentally run over still living people.

 

“Drive straight forward,” came the reply.

 

He looked through the visor for two extra seconds before complying to the order. He engaged the second gear and put the pedal to the medal. He wanted to get away from the beach as quickly as he could. For once he was grateful for the racket the suspension made as he didn’t have to listen to the undoubtedly godawful noises that came from driving over fallen comrades.

 

Just as he had engaged the fifth gear and was starting to feel good about the tank’s performance Altaïr intercommed him, “Slow down Malik. The others can’t keep up with us.”

 

“What do you mean they can’t keep up? I’ve barely even used all the gears,” he responded with irritation. He could not of course see behind to confirm Altaïr’s words.

 

“Just slow down, will you? Nobody wants to stay on this beach longer than necessary,” Altaïr commanded over the intercom.

 

Malik grumbled to himself but slowed down so the others could catch up. They all had the exact same tank with the exact same transmission and motor, and he was in the front trying out the ground. There was no reason why the other three tanks couldn’t keep up.

 

“Shouldn’t the gun be loaded?” Auditore asked over the intercom. If Malik had been able he would have thrown something at the man’s head. What a shame he did not have access to the turret.

 

“No. Not yet,” Altaïr answered.

 

“The others have caught up with us. Time to get a move on,” Altaïr commanded and Malik was more than happy to comply. He switched to a bigger gear and hit it on. The Rolls-Royce-Meteor engine the tank was equipped let out a satisfying rev and responded quickly to the throttle. It was a modified Spitfire engine – the best British engineering could produce – and when fitted to a tank it gave it a superior performance. Not even the Germans had anything similar as they were all about thick armour and dangerous guns, which to be honest Malik wouldn’t have minded in his own tank either. He did sit in the front and if they were hit from the front the chances of him being hit were astronomical.

 

“Malik, slow down,” Altaïr said over the intercom once again.

 

“There’s nothing in front of us. It makes no sense to slow down,” he retorted.

 

“The others still can’t keep up,” Altaïr replied this time clearly irritated as well.

 

He would so have a chat with the other drivers come evening. They were supposed to scout ahead the main force and they had three incompetent drivers who couldn’t make their tanks keep up with him. He would not stand for this. He didn’t want to risk his life because the others couldn’t drive.

 

He slowed down once again. Then he chanced a glance at Miles. The man looked white as a ghost and terrified. What on Earth? They had been driving over corpses which was disturbing but Miles looked like he might not function any more.

 

“Are you sure it is okay to not have the gun loaded?” Auditore asked over the intercom once again. This newbie crew was getting on his nerves. He had to count to ten to calm himself down.

 

“Yes,” Altaïr answered with a tone of finality.

 

The intercom quietened until he was told to speed up once again. The rest of the journey until the camp went like that. He would drive normally and then told to slow down to let the others catch up, and it grated on his nerves. Occasionally Auditore would ask if they should load up the gun, and then was subsequently told no.

 

So when he finally stopped at the camp his already frayed nerves were reaching snapping point. He made it out of the small hatch with relative ease and thanked God for not being born too big because for once it was an advantage. Miles on the other hand struggled more to get out from a similar hatch on the left side.

 

He walked around the tank and checked the tracks for any damage or faults in them. Finding none he turned to find the other drivers from their battle group. He would give them a piece of his mind.

 

He did manage to round the three other drivers. They all stared at him warily. Nothing he had not already been used to at this point.

 

“What have you been driving until this point?” he asked and tried to keep his irritation out of his voice.

 

It turned out that the two of the drivers were new ones and the third one had been driving a Churchill. Why did they have such an array for drivers when they were supposed to scout? Reconnaissance relied heavily on good driving and the commander being smart.

 

He tried giving the drivers some advice on how to take everything out of their tanks but one of them said, “It’s physically impossible to keep up with your tank. I push everything out of mine and still can’t keep up.”

 

“It’s the exact same tank. They go the exact same speed and handle exactly the same,” he snapped.

 

He didn’t want to have the discussion any longer even if he was the one who had initiated it and left to make some brew. He found his own crew near their tank and apparently they had had the same idea.

 

Hastings offered him a cup of brew and he sat down next to the man to enjoy the tea. Miles looked healthier in colour but eyed the brew warily, as did Auditore. The rest of them drank in silence. They knew the actual mission started the next day hours before the main force would be moving. They would be on their way to Caen before anyone else.

 

**********************

 

The next morning they packed up their things and set off before the sun had even risen. Malik was still feeling sour from the day before but kept his mouth shut and concentrated on driving.

 

As they neared Caen Malik noticed how Miles was getting pale once again. What was up with the man?

 

“Maybe we should load up the gun?” Auditore queried over the intercom.

 

Malik fully expected Altaïr to shoot down the over-eager idiot but it was Hastings who did it instead.

 

“Are you daft? I will load up the gun once there’s a need for it or when I’m told to do so. Stop buggering with it already.”

 

They had made good progress and were almost at the outskirts of Caen. Nobody had told him to slow down so they were probably quite far ahead of the others in their battle group, unless the others had magically learned to drive over the night.

 

“Malik, halt! There’s a German half-track behind the hedgerow,” Altaïr commanded. He braked immediately, bringing them to a full stop. He couldn’t of course see over the hedgerow but that was the reason they had a commander with binoculars in the turret. For the first time he pulled the visor shut because while the half-track most likely had only machine guns fitted to it, the machine guns were more than enough to kill a careless driver driving with his visor open.

 

“Desmond, you need to be ready to shoot in a bit,” Altaïr instructed. Malik watched Miles flinch as his name was mentioned in the intercom.

 

Malik frowned. This was not good at all. Malik could hear Auditore celebrating his “chance to shoot Nazis finally” but ignored the bravado. He reached through the space between them and shook Miles slightly.

 

Miles looked at him then with wide eyes. Malik didn’t say anything because everything would be heard over the intercom but he tried to give the best reassuring nod he could. Something he had used in the past for his little brother when Kadar had been scared of something.

 

Miles then managed to grab the Besa machine gun and affirm Altaïr’s commands. Hastings told Auditore to shut his trap and concentrate on the shooting.

 

“Malik, can you flank them if need be?” Altaïr questioned.

 

“Who do you think I am? Some novice straight out of Bovington camp?” he retorted.

 

“Good. Then let’s go,” Altaïr said.

 

Malik engaged the second gear, revved, and released the clutch. The tracks spun in the mud before gaining enough traction and for a while Malik was afraid they would fall off. Luckily they didn’t and they got moving quickly.

 

He charged through the hedgerow and while his vision was now rather limited because he had to peer through the two periscopes he could see there wasn’t just a half-track there but the feared German 88mm anti-tank gun.

 

“Altaïr, you fucking bastard!” he growled as he charged towards the half-track as he knew he really didn’t want to end up in front of the 88mm business end.

 

“Desmond, fire already!” Altaïr shouted and Malik did then notice machine gun trajectories in front of them.

 

An 88mm shell flew right beside them. It didn’t hit them though. The Germans were probably too surprised and didn’t have time to aim properly.

 

Malik pulled on the right brake hard which made the tank slide for a while. He released the break and accelerated which made them turn quickly to the right. He drove right into the half-track making it topple over. He braked hard with both brakes as he didn’t want to go over the fallen vehicle.

 

Miles kept shooting the bottom of the half-track. Malik feared the gasoline might light up from the firing. He reversed just in case and the whine the motor made when he forced the engine to move backwards was horrible and so was the backfiring. But he had no time to wonder about it.

 

Then he felt rather than saw the turret turn. The recoil wracked through the entire frame of the tank and the noise it made was unmistakable explosion of high explosive shell. It was followed by Auditore celebrating his hit which almost broke Malik’s eardrums.

 

Miles had finally ceased his shooting and the half-track had not fortunately caught on fire. Malik knew the danger was not over and didn’t dare to open his visor but kept peering through the periscopes even if the view range was rather limited.

 

Altaïr’s upside down face appeared in the right side’s periscope. Malik scowled hard and pushed open the visor.

 

Then he opened the hatch on his right and climbed out of the tank.

 

Altaïr was standing on top of the front of the tank looking entirely too smug about the whole situation. Malik felt his temper flaring at the sight. The rest of the battle group finally caught up with them.

 

“You shit! You must have known there was an 88mm with the half-track! What were you thinking not informing me about it?!” he raged at Altaïr and gestured towards the wreck of the half-track and the anti-tank gun.

 

The front gunner’s hatch opened and Miles didn’t manage to make it even halfway out when he threw up. Malik cringed at the sight and wished from the bottom of his heart that all the puke had ended up outside the tank because otherwise the smell would be horrible in the cramped space.

 

“I had everything under control the entire time,” Altaïr replied unfazed by his tantrum.

 

“Fuck you, Ibn-La’Ahad, this is why nobody wants to be part of your crew!” he spat.

 

Hastings and Auditore emerged from the turret. Auditore was predictably excited to examine his handiwork at close range and pretty much frolicked over the wreck of the half-track. Hastings still had miraculously his glasses intact but looked kind of dishevelled otherwise.

 

“We’ll see about that. I will make you eat those words once all of this is over, Al-Sayf,” Altaïr retorted and tried intimidating him with his bigger posture. Malik stared back defiantly, not budging even one bit.

 

“I’m sorry, mates but do you want brew?” Hastings asked, interrupting their staring contest. They both turned to face the man.

 

“Did you already radio the situation?” Altaïr asked.

 

Malik concentrated on watching Auditore poking around the 88mm as if it was the most fascinating thing in the world. Miles had finished throwing up and was making his way out of the front gunner’s hatch.

 

“There’s someone alive here!” Auditore suddenly yelled.

 

Sure enough there was a German soldier who crawled in the wreckage. The brew making was forgotten for a while when they all bolted into action.

 

The soldier was pleading for his life; that much was for certain even if he didn’t speak German. The universal tone of begging and despair was something anyone could understand.

 

“He’s saying he wants to surrender,” Hastings said while holding the empty shell used for making the brew.

 

“You speak German?” he asked.

 

“I do. Also Russian,” Hastings said and then asked something in German from the German soldier on the ground. The soldier’s face lit up in recognition of his native language.

 

“Radio back that we have a prisoner. Maybe he has some information that can be helpful,” Altaïr ordered. Hastings complied immediately.

 

*******************

 

In the evening when they had made camp for the night Malik decided to confront Altaïr. He wanted answers because there were too many coincidences to their situation for his liking.

 

“Want some tea? Not brew but actual tea,” Altaïr offered as he approached the man. He took up the offer because why not? He enjoyed proper tea as much as anyone.

 

“I want some explanations, Altaïr,” he started.

 

Altaïr looked at him as stone-faced as ever as if he had been expecting him to confront him. Or the man just didn’t care.

 

“Why do we have two bilingual people in our crew? Sound excessive to me,” he questioned though he had few other questions too.

 

“Three,” Altaïr corrected.

 

“Excuse me?” Malik countered.

 

“We have three bilingual people in the crew. Hastings speaks three different languages, Auditore speaks Italian and English, and you speak Arabic,” Altaïr said indifferently. Malik frowned.

 

“How do you know I speak Arabic? My mother tongue is listed as English,” he replied with irritation.

 

“Reports tell you spoke with the locals in North Africa in their native language,” Altaïr responded.

 

Malik was starting to see red once again.

 

“Why do you have access to my files? Why this setup? And why is Miles not even the appropriate age for being enlisted?” he hissed and gestured between himself and Altaïr. Altaïr managed a terrible shark grin.

 

“You will know soon enough,” Altaïr said as if he was supposed to somehow divine the meaning from that.

 

“Are you being a jerk or is there a reason for not speaking about it?” he snapped.

 

“After Caen has been dealt with you will know,” Altaïr said which meant that the details were classified and their real mission had not yet started.

 

********************

 

Caen was supposed to be simple thing to take over. But it wasn’t. News of their fellow tankmen who had landed on the gold beach and headed towards Villers-Bocage reached them during their efforts at Caen. There had been an ambush by a single Tiger tank which had taken out fourteen Cromwells.

 

Malik was so glad they had not been assigned there even if the situation at Caen was far from optimal. The last of the naivety was carved out of Desmond and Ezio during the battle in Caen. The city was reduced into rubble right in front of their eyes as both the Germans and they kept fighting over it.

 

In the end they fought for two months in Caen from which most of it they spent suicide scouting for bridges and roads. Somehow they managed to escape all of it unscathed but Malik wasn’t stupid and he had counted all the times there had been an unsuccessful attempt at taking the city. It was stacking against them.

 

He spent his evenings writing to his brother and maintaining the tank. Kadar did not write back to him very often but he wasn’t expecting it either because he knew his brother was too busy working at Leyland building the very same tanks he drove.

 

He was sitting at their camp with his writing equipment taken out. He had a half-written letter in his hands when Altaïr appeared.

 

“Who are you writing for? A girl back home?” Altaïr asked and sat down opposite to him.

 

“No. It’s for my brother,” he answered.

 

“All those letters have been for your brother? I thought you were madly in love with someone to write so much,” Altaïr commented with a teasing voice. Malik sighed and tried to not get riled up by the idiot.

 

“Yes they have all been for my brother. I don’t have anyone waiting for me at home. Are you now satisfied?” Malik responded.

 

“Very much so,” Altaïr replied and looked very satisfied at himself. Altaïr stood up and wandered off, leaving a very confused Malik behind.

 

‘What the fuck was that?’ he thought and then shook his head before getting back to writing.

 

In the end it was only with American assistance they managed to capture the city or what was left of it anyway. There weren’t many people alive afterwards from the tens of thousands of people living in there. This was completely different from the kind of battle he had seen in North Africa and it left a sour taste in his mouth.

 

**************************

 

They were sent to chase after the retreating Germans and keep the main group up-to-date as to what was going on. Most of the time they didn’t really see much of the enemy as the Germans retreated in haste and the battles were no longer focused on any single place.

 

Desmond and Ezio took to travelling leaning against the turret outside of the tank. Shaun had discovered the wonders of brew, and Altaïr had taken on pestering him over the intercom for some reason.

 

Of course he knew what this was. He had seen this happening in the desert as well. They were bored. After the intensity that was Caen some small skirmishes here and there felt like nothing and most of the time they just drove steadily towards Belgium.

 

The other tanks in their battle group still couldn’t keep up with them. Malik had tried teaching the others to drive their tanks better but his efforts were in vain. Altaïr had given up on telling him to slow down so most of the time they were far ahead of the others.

 

They were in Belgium and they had not seen the enemy for days. It was as if the Nazis had packed up their things and simply left the country as nothing of them could be found.

 

Malik saw a large ridge with a hedgerow on top of it in front of them and stopped at the bottom. He was fully expecting Altaïr to dismount and walk up to the ridge to scout ahead. It was a standard procedure to do and not doing just that had cost the British forces heavily in Villers-Bocage.

 

“Drive on top of the ridge,” Altaïr commanded over the intercom.

 

“What?!” he responded.

 

“I said drive on top of the ridge,” Altaïr replied.

 

“I heard what you said the first time. Get your lazy ass out and scout it like it should be done!” he yelled at the intercom.

 

“I wonder if you could possibly shout your point any louder,” Shaun commented.

 

“You, my friend, almost broke my eardrums,” Ezio piped up.

 

Great all he needed now was Desmond commenting something irrelevant. Luckily Desmond kept his mouth shut but it was probably more due to Malik giving him the stink-eye rather than any actual sense.

 

“We haven’t seen any Germans for days. What are the odds of there being any behind the ridge now?” Altaïr said and Malik wanted to just throttle Altaïr to death.

 

“I don’t want to start explaining you the simple probability maths which has nothing to do with faith,” he replied and the whole radio burst into a squabble between the all of them.

 

“Silence! All of you!” Altaïr shouted over the intercom and everyone quieted down.

 

“I am the commander here! And I command us to drive to the ridge and anyone who protests will be reported for disobeying orders,” Altaïr commanded.

 

Malik rubbed his face in exasperation. He engaged the first gear but before he released the clutch he said to the radio, “Fine,” just to let Altaïr know that he was still unhappy with him.

 

They did then move forward and he shut his visor just in case. Malik knew the chances of Germans being behind the ridge were minimal at this point, but he couldn’t help but be annoyed at Altaïr’s blatant disregard of caution and common tactics.

 

They climbed the hill and were emerging from the hedges when something hit them in the front plating. And it was something big.

 

All hell let loose in the tank and Altaïr yelled over the intercom to reverse and shoot at the same time. Malik put on the reverse and released the clutch so abruptly that the engine backfired harder than normal. He could hear shells hitting them on the front plates and he cursed Altaïr with every imaginable curse word he could come up.

 

Desmond was shooting the Besa in panic and probably didn’t aim anywhere. Malik feared for the first shell that would penetrate the front plate hitting him. They didn’t even know what was shooting at them.

 

He managed to reverse enough to have the tank behind the ridge sheltered from the enemy fire. He saw from his periscopes Altaïr jumping out of the tank and crawling to the hedges. Almost as soon as Altaïr had disappeared into the hedges he got back walking upright. Malik pushed his visor open.

 

Altaïr stopped in front of the tank and wore the most peculiar expression.

 

“What is it?” he questioned.

 

“Come and see for yourself,” Altaïr replied. Malik rolled his eyes but complied.

 

He dismounted and joined Altaïr at the front of the tank. It was the weirdest thing he had ever seen.

 

Several, what looked like anti-aircraft rounds, were sticking from the front plate like arrows from a carcass. They had penetrated the armour partially. He had never seen anything like it.

 

“What shot us?” he asked.

 

“It was a German lorry with an anti-aircraft gun on it,” Altaïr answered but was clearly much more mesmerised by the shells sticking from the plating.

 

“We could have taken them on easily,” he commented and crossed his arms.

 

“Yes we could have,” Altaïr replied.

 

Malik was surprised. He had fully expected Altaïr to defend his idiotic actions and now that Altaïr didn’t talk back at him he found himself more irritated than after their usual exchanges.

 

“So that’s it? That’s all you have to say,” he snapped.

 

“What more is there to say? I made a mistake and you were right. Happy now?” Altaïr retorted and invaded his personal space.

 

“No,” Malik answered simply.

 

“If you two lovebirds are done with your quarrel, I suggest we make ourselves a brew. That is of course unless you would rather prefer to keep fighting each other,” Shaun interrupted their staring contest.

 

They would have to go back to the main camp to get the tank checked. There was no way it was normal for the frontal plate to be half-penetrated like that.

 

“Sure, why not,” Malik answered and turned away from Altaïr. Altaïr grabbed his arm and even though Altaïr didn’t say anything, he gave Malik an unreadable expression. The touch lingered for a little too long.

 

The rest of the battle group caught up with them. Everybody swarmed around their tank and the bizarre sight of shells sticking from the front.

 

Malik sat on top of a side-skirt and drank his brew while Ezio bragged loudly in an exaggerated manner about their encounter with the German lorry.

 

*************************

 

They made it back to the camp that evening and drove their tank straight to the mechanic. The state of their tank’s frontal armour garnered a fair bit of curiosity from the people. In fact a regimental quartermaster happened on the spot as well.

 

The quartermaster scrutinised the sight for a while before apparently coming to a some sort of conclusion.

 

“What’s the serial number of this tank?” the quartermaster asked them.

 

They told the man the number and the quartermaster looked it up from his stocks.

 

“Well it seems that somehow you have ended up with a practice tank,” the quartermaster said.

 

Malik realised instantly what that meant and what the implications of that were. The armour was not hardened steel and it wasn’t nearly as thick as it was in other tanks. It was why the tank was so much faster than the others because it of course weighed considerably less.

 

He had not ever driven battle-ready Cromwell so he didn’t have anything to reference against. It also had not crossed his mind they might have ended up with a practice tank. What were even the odds of that happening?

 

How had they survived Caen in a paper tank?

 

“You should change the tank for a proper one. This one shouldn’t even be here,” the quartermaster concluded.

 

“We don’t want to change it! This is our lucky tank! We have made all the way from Normandy to here in this one. We can’t just abandon her!” Ezio defended while attempting to hug the tank but ended up looking just ridiculous in the process.

 

“Her? Who decided it’s a girl? I say it’s a he-tank,” Shaun interjected.

 

“Eagle! The tank is called the Eagle! We can’t abandon Eagle now!” Desmond joined the defence.

 

Altaïr didn’t comment but looked entirely too smug and was it any wonder? Desmond had named the tank after Altaïr and the others seemed to just roll with it. Malik resigned to just rolling his eyes as he had been clearly outvoted in the matter.

 

“As you can see my crew is very attached to Eagle. We can’t just give it away,” Altaïr said and Malik wanted to just throw something at the man.

 

“I bet Malik especially likes riding the Eagle,” Shaun quipped and the rest burst into laughter at his dirty joke.

 

Malik felt the heat rise on his cheeks because the image conjured in his mind was something entirely different from what Shaun and the rest must have been thinking of. He glanced at Altaïr who stared straight at him with a knowing look. There was a challenge written on those yellowish eyes which dared him to rise up to the challenge. He didn’t have the courage to do so, choosing instead to remain silent.

 

“Alright, alright. You can keep the tank but I don’t want to hear any complaints when the frontal armour gets pierced by 20mm anti-aircraft cannons and don’t even dream of taking on the 88mm,” the quartermaster relented.

 

Malik sighed in defeat. He circled around the _Eagle_ and started his meticulous routine of checking the tracks.

 

“Brew?” Shaun asked him while he was checking the drive wheel from the right side.

 

“Sure,” he answered and went back to inspecting the teething on the drive wheel.

 

“Are the tracks truly so fascinating that you need to hover over them every night?” Shaun asked with sarcasm.

 

“No. But there’ll be a day when you thank me for doing this. Now get the others and help me to tighten this side,” he replied.

 

*********************

 

It was that same evening he was munching down on his rations and writing to Kadar when Altaïr appeared once again. The infuriating jerk sat next to him and Malik noted how Altaïr’s uniform conformed even less to etiquette than before. How the man could get away with it, he didn’t know.

 

“Writing to your brother?” Altaïr asked.

 

“Yes,” he answered.

 

“Does he ever write back?”

 

“Sometimes,” he replied even though the last time he had received a letter from Kadar was right before Normandy. His brother must have just been busy with his life. Working in a factory was hard work.

 

Altaïr didn’t pry more and Malik was thankful for it. They remained silent for a good while where only sounds were Malik’s writing and the general background noises of the camp.

 

“Tell me. Why this group of people?” he queried as he remembered their discussion in Caen.

 

“I passed up a promotion in favour of being able to gather a dream team and embark on a scout mission where I was allowed to make my own rules,” Altaïr answered as if it was nothing.

 

“Are you completely mad? Why would you do that? This is the most dangerous position a member of the cavalry could put himself in,” he questioned as he just couldn’t really understand Altaïr’s mind-set at all.

 

“I’m not interested in a military career. I’m interested in adventure and excitement. Don’t you ever feel the adrenaline coursing through your veins after a skirmish?” Altaïr responded with passion and it was the first time he had seen Altaïr been emotionally invested in anything.

 

“No. I joined the army so my brother wouldn’t have to,” Malik answered with irritation because it wasn’t entirely true. He loved driving tanks, and the exhilarating feeling he got from being able to outmanoeuvre the enemy was something he loved. But he had been brought up to not revel in violence so his moral code dictated him to not voice such feelings.

 

“Yet you are the one they called an angry porcupine after you had colourfully cursed through a series of high speed manoeuvres and then rammed a Mark III at the end of it,” Altaïr said and nudged him on the side with his elbow.

 

“Do you know what they called you in the desert?” he asked while trying to keep his sarcasm at bay as well as he could.

 

“What?” Altaïr replied.

 

“A reckless brick with suicidal tendencies,” he deadpanned and for some reason it amused Altaïr to no end.

 

“It takes more than that to get through my skin,” Altaïr quipped.

 

“Apparently I _really_ like to ride the _Eagle_ ,” Malik said completely unabashed.

 

“Really? I could have sworn you hated the _Eagle_ ,” Altaïr answered entirely too smugly. Was there nothing he could say to take the man’s ego down a notch?

 

“Somehow I find myself having grown awfully fond of the _Eagle_ during these last months,” he replied.

 

“I really want to try exploring _Sword_ beach one of these days,” Altaïr responded and the man was grinning like a maniac. Malik regretted giving the man more ammunition.

 

“That was just so awful,” Malik said and made fake gagging noises. Altaïr laughed at him.

 

“But you still like the _Eagle_?” Altaïr asked.

 

“I do,” Malik answered which finally shut Altaïr up and Malik could hear the man hum contently next to him.

 

************************

 

They reached the German borders relatively quickly as the Nazis seemed to retreat quickly to take more defensible positions behind the old borders. They were now doing reconnaissance far behind enemy lines and it was apparently exactly up Altaïr’s alley as the man seemed to have just grown more in confidence, however that was even possible, the farther they went into enemy territory.

 

While in Belgium and France they had been received as heroes and liberators, in Germany they tended to avoid being spotted by the local people. There was no telling which village housed Nazi sympathisers and which had normal people. They had received strict orders that they were not allowed to fraternise with the enemy under any circumstances.

 

It was an order that didn’t sit too well with Ezio who had constantly slept with all kinds of girls all the way from France until the borders of Germany. The rest of them didn’t care all too much except that they could no longer get any fresh produces and had to instead stick strictly to their rations.

 

It was somewhere near the border in the German side when they went to scout a river crossing. It wasn’t the biggest ever river Malik had seen but roughly 20ft wide and probably deep enough to drown a tank and its crew.

 

As usual they were far ahead of the others in their battle group so they crossed the bridge leading over the river by themselves. The ground was solid and Malik picked up speed once again and they were making great progress.

 

They went through some thicket almost at full speed. Malik had his visor open so he saw rather clearly what was suddenly in front of them.

 

Several German 88mm gun were behind the thicket and other German weaponry. He could pretty much feel the panic striking everyone in the tank because while they did call Eagle their lucky tank, they also all knew it had a paper thin armour. The 88mm could penetrate a normal Cromwell frontally but Eagle wasn’t a normal Cromwell.

 

“Malik, turn left!” Altaïr commanded and for once Malik didn’t question his orders but complied instantly.

 

“Fire the smoke!” came the next command in a rapid succession.

 

He accelerated the engine to a point he had never before done, taking every single bit of power out of it. He could hear machine gun shells ricocheting of their armour and he knew it was only a matter of time before the 88mm would be pointed at them instead of the sky. Something big landed and exploded in front of him but he just kept pushing onwards, hoping they wouldn’t be hit with anything big.

 

They neared the thicket once more. He drove mercilessly through it and several twigs and sticks flew through the visor into his driving compartment. The river was now in front of them.

 

“Jump the river!” Altaïr shouted into the intercom.

 

“WHAT!?” was the response from the rest of the crew except from Malik. He knew what Altaïr meant.

 

He straightened the Eagle and kept the throttle full on. The edge of the river came quickly. The next thing he saw through the visor was the blue sky just for a fraction of a second. He kicked the clutch hard and he could hear everyone screaming in the tank, especially Desmond who sat next to him. He did not scream, nor did he release his sight from the vision in front of him.

 

They landed hard on the land. Malik feared for them getting detracked as they rolled freely on the ground. Once they had slowed almost to a stop he put the Eagle on gear once again and sped off.

 

The shouting through the intercom was something to behold once everyone had gotten back to their bearings.

 

“The Eagle does fly!” Ezio celebrated.

 

“This surely is our lucky tank,” Shaun commented with his trade mark sarcasm but Malik couldn’t help but hear some fondness in the voice as well.

 

“I thought I was going to die, if not from the Germans firing at us then from drowning while being trapped,” Desmond said obviously relieved he did not in fact die.

 

Altaïr remained silent while Malik allowed a small smile to cross his face.

 

They ran into the rest of their battle group a good distance away from the river and the Germans behind it. It was valuable info for the main force they had acquired that day on top of the heroics.

 

They dismounted the Eagle and the others in their battle group did the same for their tanks. Almost immediately as Malik’s feet hit the ground Altaïr dragged him behind the Eagle and slammed him against the warm engine compartment.

 

They were high on adrenaline as their lips locked with each other and all they could concentrate was the obvious hardness in both of their trousers. They found their hands in each others pants stroking themselves into a quick and dirty climax.

 

They separated with reluctance from each other. Malik could still feel the lingering warmth of Altaïr against himself which was completely different kind of sensation from the warm metal against his back.

 

“Here’s the hero himself!” Ezio appeared from the side of the tank and invaded his personal space to probably pull him into the small crowd of tankmen. And Malik noted how uncomfortable it was when Ezio crowded him while he had just happily let Altaïr jerk him off just a minute ago.

 

“Even an Eagle needs a rider,” Shaun said with an obvious innuendo and everybody laughed at the joke.

 

Malik would have been lying if he had said he didn’t like to be recognised for his skills. Nobody usually noticed the driver and focused on the commander or the gunner. To be noticed as a driver one would either have to be dead, making the tank unable to move or pull of something spectacular. He had managed in the latter even if he had not intentionally set out do so. It was all due to Altaïr putting his trust on his skills and then Malik being able to measure against the challenge.

 

**********************

 

The very same evening while the others were busy playing cards over their rations (and fags were especially valuable playing chips) Malik still fussed over Eagle. He was worried the landing might have damaged the suspension because after all tanks were not supposed to jump 20ft no matter how skilful the driver may have been.

 

The tracks may have been holding just fine on their return to the camp but he really didn’t want them to break down during a critical moment. If they ever broke down in front of an anti-tank gun or any of the German tanks they would be goners.

 

He stopped his administrations to stare at the crude writing Ezio had written on the side of the turret. It of course read ‘Eagle’ on it and underneath it was a small drawing of a penis in a typical fashion of immaturity one would expect from young men barely in their adulthood.

 

Hands descended on him from both sides which made him flinch in surprise. He turned around to find Altaïr smirking at him. He looked around himself warily but didn’t see anyone so he yanked Altaïr for a kiss and let his hands roam under the man’s clothing.

 

The months of being deprived of sexual release other than his own hand undid him very quickly. He found himself rock hard from Altaïr just simply groping him everywhere. The side-skirt of the Eagle felt uncomfortable against his shoulder blades as Altaïr pushed his knee between Malik’s thighs.

 

Altaïr was demanding of him and for the second time that day he was eager to obey. There were hands fumbling down their trousers unbuckling their belts. And then there were Altaïr’s hands on his ass and all he could do was to cling on to Altaïr’s shoulders.

 

Altaïr fucked him with the kind of brutal savageness he had expected from the man. Altaïr was reckless and arrogant even while having sex, taking Malik with the kind of abandon as if there was no tomorrow. And for all he knew there might not be tomorrow so Malik pushed against all of Altaïr’s thrusts while stroking his own dick.

 

In the end they both lay boneless half propped against the tracks of the Eagle. Altaïr fumbled around with his hands as if trying to find a fag to smoke.

 

“Could you be any more cliché?” Malik asked.

 

“What? I don’t get it,” Altaïr answered. Malik chuckled and nudged Altaïr on the side playfully.

 

“Smoke after sex?” he questioned again.

 

“But I don’t even have a fag. I lost all of mine at cards just the day before,” Altaïr replied and it was true statement too as Malik had been also playing cards that night.

 

“But you clearly would want to have one,” he stated.

 

“Yes I would but it turns out you can’t have everything,” Altaïr responded and while the tone was sarcastic the statement hit just a little bit too close to home for Malik.

 

A companionable silence settled between them. After a while Malik broke the silence.

 

“Have you thought what you are going to do after the war is over?”

 

“I probably go back home and continue the family business. I haven’t really thought about it all that much,” Altaïr said and apparently had finally come to the conclusion he would put his hands behind his head and lean on them.

 

“What about you? Any plans?” Altaïr asked.

 

“I will probably end up working at Leyland since my brother is already working there and could probably give a good one in for me,” he answered with a sigh.

 

“Is it what you truly want to do? I can’t imagine you in a monotonous factory work,” Altaïr questioned.

 

“No it’s not what I would want to do but it’s not like I have any other choices,” he answered. He had been avoiding the harsh reality of what would be awaiting for him back at home after the war was over. He had seen glimpses of what he would truly want to do with his life but he knew the realities and knew he never had a chance at them to begin with.

 

“But you still didn’t answer what you would _want to do_?” Altaïr questioned and turned to face him.

 

“I would like to try my hands at race driving,” he blurted out in embarrassment that someone of his status would even dare to dream of something like that.

 

“I could easily imagine you doing just that. What’s stopping you?” Altaïr asked as if Malik was some sort of simpleton.

 

“My family is poor or rather there’s no other family than me and my brother. The rest of us living in the real world don’t embark on suicide scouting missions to amuse themselves. We struggle through life and it doesn’t matter how gifted or intelligent we are if we have no money to make those dreams true,” he argued.

 

Altaïr looked completely unmoved of his tirade. Well of course Altaïr didn’t care, the man rarely seemed to empathise with anyone.

 

“How about we make a deal?” Altaïr asked with a challenge in his voice and a horrible smile that didn’t reach the eyes.

 

“What?” Malik asked in response while being slightly alarmed.

 

“When the war is over I shall sponsor you on the condition of you carrying the logos of my family company and you must win the championship,” Altaïr suggested and Malik couldn’t tell if the man was serious or joking.

 

“You are mad!”

 

Altaïr just laughed at him.

 

**************************

 

The next few days went by in a daze as the rest of the crew were convinced they were invincible and could go anywhere and do anything. There was no limit to what Eagle could do and they were the best tank crew ever to have existed.

 

The chances were that if a Tiger tank had rolled in front of them they would have thought they could have taken it on. They might have even succeeded because the sheer size of their overconfidence would have probably crushed the enemy tank into pieces.

 

If only ego could have been used as ammunition, the Eagle would have been overflowing with it. The unfortunate reality was that they had a 75mm gun, which would have had hard time penetrating a Tiger even from behind, and a Panther they would have had to flank to manage their task.

 

But not an hour could go by without someone shouting over the intercom “The Eagle flies!” or other such nonsense. In response to that Malik wasn’t over some childish bravado and when the brakes inevitably overheated from all the slides and fast turns he had performed and they couldn’t stay on the road any longer everyone just laughed at him cutting the corners.

 

Malik was once again writing his brother when Altaïr appeared. The man was smoking which was rather unusual these days and holding a pile of what appeared to be letters.

 

The letters were dropped on his lap. There were a lot of them. Malik picked up one of them and realised it was one of his letters he had written for Kadar. He frowned and shuffled quickly through the rest of the letters as well. His suspicions were confirmed when he realised all the letters were addressed to Kadar.

 

“What’s the meaning of this?” he asked and tried to find some hint from Altaïr’s features as to what was going on. He found none. Then Altaïr dropped another letter on his lap which had his name on it.

 

He opened up the letter the letter and as he read through its contents his eyes widened in disbelief. The letter stated that Kadar had died in the battle of Caen. But how could it be since his brother worked at Leyland back in Britain and why did he get the information just now.

 

“Did you know about this?” he asked because he wanted to blame someone.

 

“No,” Altaïr answered.

 

“He was in Caen! He was right under my nose and I’m told only now? Why?” he questioned though he wasn’t sure if he was really even conversing with Altaïr any more.

 

“If I had to guess it’s because he didn’t have any family back home,” Altaïr said and while there was logic to that Malik didn’t want to hear it.

 

“He was my little brother. I joined the army for him,” but part of him questioned if that was even true.

 

“I’m sorry,” Altaïr said.

 

Malik didn’t respond.

 

*******************

 

The next day he drove recklessly. There was no other way of describing it though the rest of the crew thought he was just being spirited and still kept on shouting all kinds of one-liners. He had not told anyone of the news he had received which left only Altaïr knowing what happened.

 

He barrelled through ditches and potholes way ahead of the others in their battle group. On a normal day he wouldn’t have driven like that because he was afraid the suspension might break or the tracks fall off but that day he just didn’t care.

 

It was then disaster stroke. They made it through a small forest and once they came out of it they spotted a Stug and an 88mm almost right in front of them.

 

The first thing of course was the machine gun fire rattling off of their armour. The 88mm was pointing towards the sky but Malik could already see the Germans furiously attempting to point it at them. The Stug reacted faster and while it didn’t have a turret it traversed surprisingly quickly.

 

Altaïr shouted commands to shoot the Stug in the drive wheel, do evasive manoeuvres, and to fire the machine gun.

 

Just as he turned to the left a shell whistled right over them narrowly missing. He could see it because his visor was fully open, giving him a better if still limited view of the world.

 

The gun was firing on them moved and it almost hit the Stug. Malik steered quickly in the other directions to avoid more incoming fire.

 

He zig-zagged the Eagle, avoiding both the 88mm and the Stug. There were several narrow misses.

 

He made it to the backside of the tank-destroyer where Altaïr commanded him to halt so he did very abruptly. They stopped as if they had hit the wall and while Ezio shot the Stug on the backside and Malik could see the tank lighting up, he thought that not only the Shermans were worthy of being called Ronson.

 

But it wasn’t all. As he tried to get a move on the suspension let out a terrible loud noise and he only managed to make the tank turn sideways so he was staring almost straight at the 88mm. The suspension had finally given up from all the rough treatment and he was the only one to blame.

 

He hoped to God Shaun was quick in his loading. He glanced at his left and saw Desmond staring concentrated through periscope. He could hear his own heartbeat and breathing over the engine noise.

 

He saw the 88mm fire and almost simultaneously felt the recoil of their own gun being fired. He then shut his eyes and it was the first time since being a recruit he felt real panic hit him.

 

The shell came through from somewhere in his left and continued its journey to the engine compartment. And when he opened his eyes and looked in his left he saw Desmond doubled over by pain, but didn’t see the lower part of his arm.

 

His ears were ringing and vision was fuzzy. He realised somebody was pulling him out of the Eagle. He thanked for once being on the smaller side.

 

********************

 

He woke up in a field hospital that was cramped, smelled of piss and shit, and was terribly uncomfortable to be in. He stared at the ceiling for a really long time trying to gather his thoughts.

 

He had killed the Eagle and almost killed the other people in it. In fact he might have killed Desmond as far as he knew. He was now himself a crippled wreck with no future or family to go back to.

 

The days he spent at the field hospital all blurred together into an incoherent mess that was timed between nurse changing his bandages and giving him medicine. Occasionally the doctor would come over to evaluate his healing progress.

 

In the end it was Altaïr that interrupted his monotonous existence at the hospital. Altaïr donned now a slightly different uniform than before or rather the badges were different which meant he had been promoted. Of course Altaïr had been promoted; the man was meant for greater things since the beginning and after being teamed up with Altaïr, Malik had come to understand whence both the praise and the hate stemmed.

 

Though apparently the promotion had not made Altaïr any better at conforming to uniform etiquette.

 

They greeted each other uncomfortably and then a silence stretched between the two of them. It was like they were both afraid to start the conversation.

 

“Is Desmond alright?” he then managed.

 

“Yes, he got hit by shrapnel but luckily the Eagle was so paper thin the shell made it mostly clean through the tank,” Altaïr replied.

 

“Lucky tank indeed,” he commented.

 

“Could have been worse. Could have been a Sherman,” Altaïr said as if it was somehow comforting to know that they had not at least burned to death.

 

“I was once in a Sherman when it lit up,” he said. For some reason Altaïr smiled like it was the best joke ever.

 

“Also in a Centaur when it’s turret was blown clean off and in another Sherman which lit up,” Altaïr supplied oh-so-helpfully. How well had Altaïr read his files?

 

“After the third one the rest of the division was convinced I had a curse on me,” he replied.

 

“Oh, I know all about that. It was why I wanted you to drive for me,” Altaïr said and looked smug.

 

“You wanted me to be the driver because I was cursed?” he questioned in irritation.

 

“No. Because you were obviously lucky,” Altaïr said.

 

“Well it turns out my luck has dried out,” he said bitterly and wanted to add more to it but kept his mouth shut. He didn’t want to share his insecurities with Altaïr.

 

They went silent for a while. Altaïr stared at the floor as if he was deep in thought. Malik just stared murderously in front of himself.

 

“You won’t be able to drive a racing car,” Altaïr then said and Malik wanted to scream in response.

 

“Aren’t you one hell of a observer. No wonder they made you the commander,” he retorted.

 

“You know they are sending us back to England. They didn’t see any reason to fit us with a new tank and disbanded our battle group,” Altaïr said with the same calm tone as before.

 

“The war is over?” he questioned.

 

“Almost. It’s only a matter of time now,” Altaïr replied and he could swear there was a hint of regret in the voice.

 

Malik couldn’t believe what he was hearing. While he had known the war would end at some point, it was completely different to hear it from someone else.

 

Altaïr offered his hand for taking. Malik grabbed it without a hesitation and shook it.

 

As Altaïr was about to leave Malik pulled Altaïr back from his arm. He looked Altaïr straight in the eyes with determination which was returned in the form of a reaffirming squeeze.

 

“Find me back at home. Promise to do so,” he said and it was only this tiny bit of selfishness he wanted to indulge. He wasn’t ready to let go of Altaïr even if the Eagle was dead and the war was over.

 

“I will,” Altaïr said and nodded.

 

They released their hands and Altaïr walked away.

 

*********************

 

Almost as soon as Altaïr had disappeared from his bedside another man appeared.

 

“Are you Mr Al-Sayf?” the man asked and Malik cringed at the horrible mangling of his name.

 

“Yes I am,” he answered.

 

“I was told to seek you out. I’ve been tipped that you are intelligent and have invested interest in tanks,” the man told him all business-like.

 

“I’ve been driving and maintaining tanks since the North African campaign,” he said because he didn’t know quite what else to comment as the sentence wasn’t formed as a question.

 

“Would you be interested in working in developing the new generation of British tanks? This would of course be highly secretive work,” the man asked.

 

Malik had to blink twice as he processed what he had just been asked. Before he knew it he found his lips forming the word ‘Sure,’ and his brain had gone on an overdrive.

 

“Excellent. We’ll want you working as soon as you are healed. I will take care of you transferring to a hospital back in England,” the man said and shook his hand.

 

*********************

 

He never learned why his brother had joined the army but as he got back to England he was contacted by a woman with a very small child. The child was Kadar’s. The woman had a hard time supporting herself and her child. Malik felt obliged to help them out monetarily but he also gained a nephew who he found himself treasuring like no other.

 

He learned years later that Altaïr wasn’t only the bastard son of some high class woman but his family business was military weaponry. It did explain why he was allowed to frolic around without anyone even batting an eye at his doings. It would have been superbly naïve to think that the military wasn’t corruptible enough to allow few rich kids to use it as their playground.

 

He himself completed an engineer’s degree in silence and worked to develop tanks and other armoured vehicles. His opinion was valued as he had both the education and the practical experience to back it up. He was sworn to utmost secrecy and although he really wanted to he could not even write his memoirs.

 

He did in the end meet Altaïr back in England. It was at a racetrack and Altaïr drove a racing car. The first thing Altaïr said when they exchanged words was,

 

“The Eagle flies for you and I would really like to go and explore Sword beach.”

 

And the grin the man was wearing was the most arrogant yet somehow endearing thing Malik had ever seen.

 

“That’s just as awful as it was back then,” he said while smiling like a dimwit.

 


End file.
